Brothers
by Scholar for Christ
Summary: "A muffled boom caused Sherlock to turn his gaze upward. Then, in a rush, something huge surged past him, John's hand clawed at his shirt then was gone and a garbled, bubble-encased scream burst from John's lips." My own ending for The Great Game.


**Author's Note: Greetings all! I know endings for The Great Game have been done many MANY times by many MANY talented writers but my plot bunny wanted me to give it a go and provided me a good opportunity for WatsonWhump. **

**This fic is partially based on a picture on Deviantart called "Late" by "Anastazzzy"**

**Link: **.com/?qh=§ion=&global=1&q=late#/d3fmu5k

**I haven't seen season two yet (and it's KILLING ME!) so there are no spoilers in here. My "editor" (ie "sister") has informed me that some things in this fic are a bit confusing at first. I will do my best to explain and answer any and all questions at the bottom since doing so here would give things away. Thank you for reading, I own nothing and reviews keep me hyper and motivated! :D**__

_**P.S.: Bonus points to whoever finds the cameo character! One of my faves from another series. ;D**_

"_Then I suppose my answer has already crossed yours." ~ Sherlock Holmes, The Great Game_

Fear. That was what this feeling was called. Genuine fear, and not for himself either. Sherlock glanced at John, crouched against the pool stall, bright red lasers dancing across his chest. The feeling was strange and required more time to properly analyze and understand. Time the detective simply didn't have. John nodded softly. Whatever Sherlock had planned, he was ready to go along with it. Guilt. John shouldn't be here. It was his fault. Anger. Moriarty brought John here, threatened him, maybe hurt him. Sherlock lowered the gun to point at the explosive vest. Moriarty would die. Sherlock would die. John would be hurt… John might die.

There was a brief moment of tense silence as Sherlock fought to understand his conflicting feelings. Too many emotions and not enough time to properly catalogue them and return to calming, intelligent logic. No time so no use trying. No use trying, so give in. Give in… feel. Fury, fear and guilt battled for control as Sherlock closed his eyes… and pulled the trigger.

There was a bang, a rush of heat, and he was knocked off his feet by something strong... something that smelled of coffee, wool and home. John. Then there was water and fire and John's hands pulling him deeper and further from the air his lungs were desperate for. Sherlock watched as the surface roiled from the explosion and dark objects began to rain down from the crumbling ceiling. He twisted, squinting through the blurred water until he found John's face. John raised a hand, pressing down on Sherlock's shoulder and looking upward significantly. Stay down. He knew that! He was a genius after all. John released his grip on Sherlock, using both arms to keep himself down below the heated surface. Sherlock did the same, trying not to think about air and how much his lungs were screaming for it.

A muffled boom caused Sherlock to turn his gaze upward. Then, in a rush, something huge surged past him, John's hand clawed at his shirt then was gone and a garbled, bubble-encased scream burst from John's lips. Shocked and suddenly choked by an all encompassing panic as fear beat off anger and guilt, Sherlock shot to the surface, gulping down as much air as he could and ignoring the burning the ashes and sparks caused in his lungs. Then he dove, pushing himself down past the huge (far, far too huge) chunk of ceiling and toward that blurry figure who was twisting and writhing at the bottom of the pool. Sherlock grasped John's shoulder, trying to still his frantic movements. A dark red stain was spreading outward from somewhere along John's leg.

Pushing back the trembling fear he felt (why hadn't John come to the surface?), Sherlock hooked his hands under John's arms, intending to pull him up to the waiting air if John was in too much pain to do so himself. John's hand stopped him short, digging painfully into Sherlock's arm and pulling him closer. Confused, he allowed John to steer his hand (why was John's shaking?) to the doctor's leg, down to his knee then- No… No. Wrong. This was wrong. Steel, plaster and concrete where cloth and flesh and bone should be. No.

Suddenly shaking with terror, Sherlock hurried to take John's face in both hands and breathe what little air he had left into John's lungs. Just enough for the soldier to survive until Sherlock could return with more. Rocketing back to the surface, Sherlock gasped, purposely hyperventilating before plunging down once more and forcing the excess oxygen into John's lungs as soon as he reached the doctor.

Returning to where leg met steel, Sherlock followed along John's shin with one hand, through a crack in the broken plaster and down a few more inches where his fingers met metal. A broken, jagged spear of metal that entered John's leg at the thickest portion of the calf. Blood was slipping through the crack, mixing with the water and billowing outward like a horrible, gruesome cloud.

John was pulling on Sherlock's jacket, his jerks becoming more and more desperate. Understanding instantly, Sherlock lunged for air, diving again after a few brief, desperate gasps. Breathing for John again, Sherlock rushed back to the surface at once. Help. He had to get help. But at the same time, he couldn't leave or John would… _His_ John would…. No. He wouldn't leave. Couldn't. He dove again, feeling his own terror mirrored in John's desperate acceptance of the offered air. With a little left to spare, Sherlock stayed beside John, clutching his flat-mate's arm tightly and anchoring himself with one foot tucked under the massive block of concrete.

John's hand took his, holding the detective's hand out, palm up and (like they'd done before when speaking, even in a whisper would draw unwanted attention) tracing a shaky word on the slim palm. _Hurts_. Sherlock's chest tightened. He nodded and gave John's hand a steadying squeeze before pushing off again. He broke the surface with a gasp, gulping down as much air as possible. Sirens sounded in the distance and he allowed himself a brief feeling of relief before returning to John with the captured air.

The man – the soldier – was failing. Sherlock could feel him fighting the pain and the lack of air with every stolen breath but even John could only fight for so long. Heart pounding, Sherlock took John's hand and wrote as slowly and clearly as he could: _Stay awake._ Pausing to bring John another breath, Sherlock waited, hand outstretched and eyes closed as John wrote with slow, weary movements: _Hard. Gt hlp. _

Sherlock almost laughed. _No,_ he wrote. _Air_. When Sherlock returned with another breath, John took his hand again. _Go_. Frowning, Sherlock tried again. Maybe he hadn't understood? _Air_, he wrote slowly, making sure to draw each letter as clearly as possible. John's hand just held his for a moment. The great detective's heart skipped a beat as he realized what John meant. _Go_, John wrote again, this time tracing a line beneath the word and giving Sherlock's hand another shaking squeeze. Chest suddenly tightening painfully, Sherlock lurched for the surface before his panic and pain had him screaming and breathing in the harsh chlorinated water.

He broke the surface with a tearful gasp that was half wordless, involuntary cry. Men were moving through the collapsed wall, their flashlight beams dancing wildly across the debris and dwindling flames. Taking in great, gasping sobs born of a desperate, soul-stifling terror, Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice shouting orders over the chaos. Help.

"Lestrade! Lestrade, over here!" Several beams of light found Sherlock's face and he lingered for a moment, to be sure they'd seen him before diving again. He found John, breathed into him and took his hand. _Hlp_, he wrote. _Hlp here_. Frightened by John's weak movements, he added: _plz hld on_. His only response was a slight squeeze.

Air. John needed more air than Sherlock could provide alone. Shooting back to the surface, Sherlock cast about for something, anything of use. Past a suited form he assumed to be Lestrade, Sherlock spied a long blue and white tube. In an instant, he was out of the pool and shoving the D.I. aside, ignoring the man's angry shout. He was nearly back to the water, tube in hand, when Lestrade and a young, surprisingly strong officer grabbed him by the arms, pulling him further from the water. Further from-

"John! No!" Sherlock struggled, throwing off the officer and pulling against Lestrade's iron grip. The man was yelling at him, demanding that he explain but couldn't he see? There wasn't time! Even now, Sherlock could see bubbles rising to the surface as John struggled against his body's demands for air. Turning an intense look on Lestrade, Sherlock forced the tube into his hand.

"Keep this end in fresh air." His tone stated all too clearly what would happen if Lestrade failed. Suddenly free, Sherlock pulled the rest of the tube (just long enough, thank God) into the water with him as he dove. He reached John just as the doctor released his last bit of air, squirming feebly as pain and suffocation threatened to overwhelm his will to survive. Pressing one hand to John's face, Sherlock forced the tube into his mouth despite the doctor's weak struggles. Keeping one hand at John's mouth to hold the tube in place, Sherlock pinched his flat-mate's nose with the other.

Suddenly, John's chest surged as he sucked greedily at the air, his own hand relieving Sherlock's at his mouth and holding the tube like the lifeline it was. A spasm ran through John's body and Sherlock hastily took John's other hand, scribbling _"slow"_ on the shaking palm. John's breaths struggled to a somewhat even rhythm and he pulled away from Sherlock's fingers pinching his nose. Taking John's hand again, Sherlock wrote quickly, feeling the burning need for air beginning to tear at his own lungs. _L here brb._

Another squeeze and Sherlock returned to the surface, hurrying to where Lestrade knelt by the poolside, still bellowing orders and holding the end of the tube which extended only a foot or so from the rippling chlorinated surface. Catching sight of the drenched detective, Lestrade frowned in a way that was meant to be furious but looked far too concerned to be believable.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ have you done this time? You were lucky Sarah thought to call when John didn't show up at her place- What were you thinki-"

"John's trapped," he gasped out, taking the tube from the D.I.'s hand and holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Lestrade understood immediately, bless him, standing and shouting for the pool to be drained, _now_. Feeling the distance between himself and John acutely despite the thread of life that connected them, Sherlock turned to Lestrade again as the Inspector knelt beside him. Sherlock pressed the tube into his hand and looked him in the eye.

"No one but you or myself holds this, do you understand?" Lestrade just stared dumbly at him, glancing down at the unimportant looking tube of plastic. "_Do you understand?"_ Sherlock bellowed at him, loud enough to startle even himself.

"You really do mean that, don't you?" The D.I.'s voice was disbelieving. "Sherlock I have over two dozen people here I have to-"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock cut him off, his voice cracking as he struggled to remove his own sopping coat and shoes. Finally free of the cumbersome articles, he loomed over the Inspector again, his voice snarling and dangerous like the low rumble of an oncoming storm. "If you give that to anyone, _anyone_ but me, I _swear_ I will kill you myself." Lestrade's stare grew alarmed and he nodded grimly. With one last threatening look at the D.I., Sherlock turned and dove.

The detective found John's hand again and was surprised when that hand pulled free of his and poked him in the ribs. Sherlock squirmed, his breath of air escaping as he was unable to hold back a laugh. Fleeing to the surface for air before returning, Sherlock found his wrist held once more in John's firm grip. _Tld u to go_, John wrote. _Didn't_, Sherlock wrote back and he was sure the slight twitch of John's shoulders hid a soft chuckle.

_Stbbrn prat._

_Lkwise_

Stopping to breathe, Sherlock dove again, finally making out the dull roar of the water draining away_. L mtying pool,_ Sherlock wrote, hoping John would understand his atrocious abbreviated sentences. He hated not writing them out properly but he had a limited time between each breath and had to make do with what John called "text-speak". _Bout time_, John wrote back and Sherlock allowed himself a soft chuckle as he resurfaced for air. They were fine. John would be fine. The first hints of shuddering relief made themselves known and Sherlock accepted them gladly.

He'd only just reached John, intending to write something splendidly normal like "Chinese for dinner?" when the grating moan of steel rippled through the depths. John's hand clenched suddenly, tightening painfully around Sherlock's fingers. Bringing a hand to his friend's blurred face, Sherlock found the tube floating free and John's face distorted in a muffled, almost soundless scream of agony. Retrieving the tube hastily, Sherlock forced John to take it again, feeling his panic rising as John's grip became impossibly tight.

The doctor's chest heaved as he gasped through the too small tunnel of air, fighting down another agonized cry. A second shuddering moan beat through the water and Sherlock nearly let out a horrified shout as John jerked, his whole body sliding a good foot along the bottom of the pool. The water around them was swiftly becoming fogged with pinkish red and it took every ounce of will power the great detective possessed to pry his hand from John's grip and push off for the surface. John's fingers clawing at the fabric of his trousers as he passed caused Sherlock's heart to throb painfully. John didn't understand. He had to stop Lestrade.

Bursting out into the shouts and lights, Sherlock scrambled to the water's edge.

"STOP! Lestrade, stop!"

"Wha- Stop what?"

"The water! Without the water, the debris is settling!" He rushed to the wall stumbling and nearly falling in his haste. Frantically, he shoved the men aside and wrenched the first valve shut.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you-"

"It's moving him! It's _killing_ him!" Sherlock dashed to the next valve, shutting that one as well and making a swift mental note to thank Lestrade as the man bellowed the order to shut down the two remaining pipes. Tearing back to the water, Sherlock dove, ignoring whatever Lestrade was demanding of him. Even with the lowered water level, John was a good ten feet below the surface and that was far too great a distance for even Sherlock to handle right now, he needed John to know he hadn't abandoned him. The detective pushed himself faster through the water, trying not to shudder at the pinkish tint that area of the pool had adopted.

The instant he arrived, John's hand clutched at his shirt, both fists gripping the white fabric almost convulsively. Even without the benefit of voices or "trace-texting" as Sherlock dubbed it, he understood John's message clearly. _Don't leave me._ Hooking one foot beneath the concrete again to keep himself anchored, Sherlock lifted John's torso, pulling him closer into a sort of floating embrace. John was trembling, blood slipping from his nose now as well as his leg, from the pressure no doubt but that didn't stop Sherlock from thinking for one horrible second that John had been injured internally.

Sherlock's lungs were beginning to burn again but he couldn't have left John even if he'd wanted to. The doctor seemed unable to relax the muscles that kept his hands fisted in Sherlock's shirt. Instead, John pressed his face against the white cloth as well, accepting the awkward embrace. Sherlock suddenly recognized John's strained gasping, inaudible to him but obvious in the movement of the doctor's chest, as invisible tears. But… John didn't cry. John had never cried. He'd been upset, angry, he'd even been depressed but Sherlock had never once seen a tear fall from those kind blue eyes. It frightened him, more than the bomb, more than Moriarty, more than the thought of his own death even. Abandoning all thought of returning to the surface (he'd figure out breathing later), Sherlock tightened his grip around John's shoulders, willing him to stop. Stop shaking, stop crying, stop scaring him, please….

Seconds later a stranger entered their world of water and pain. The stranger pressed a mask to Sherlock's face and he was greeted by a blessedly clear breath of air. Strapping the mask and small oxygen tank on tightly, Sherlock helped the nameless man trade the plastic tube for another mask and tank.

Sherlock vaguely recognized the items as practice equipment for scuba divers but really couldn't have cared less where the things came from as long as they kept him and John alive. John struggled briefly before settling into the mask with a grateful gasp. After a few clear breaths, he seemed to calm down a bit, his hands shifting and the shaking becoming a soft trembling as tears gave way to shivers.

Gently pulling one of the soldier's hands free from his shirt, Sherlock traced awkwardly with his left hand: _wtr stppd._ John moved his hand from Sherlock's shirt to his wrist, writing out clumsily: _wtr cnt b stupd._ Sherlock let out a choked laugh and thought he saw John smile weakly through the mask. The smile faded though and John was writing again. _Lst a lot of bld_. After a brief pause, John wrote again. _Thx_. Confused, Sherlock took John's hand. _Wht 4?_

_Cmng bck._

For a long moment, Sherlock was frozen. Coming back? How could John think he would do anything else? Couldn't he see how important he was? No, of course not. Sherlock had only figured that out himself just tonight. John couldn't be expected to know yet, not when he still considered himself a tag along to crime scenes and an obstacle to Sherlock's work. _Im sorry_, he wrote. _Wht 4?_ John scribbled back. Another pause as Sherlock gathered his thoughts. _Evrythng_. This time John paused before writing as firmly as he could manage with shaking, fumbling fingers: _Ms fault_.

_Mine_, Sherlock came back. _You were rght._ _Wasnt real_, a beat, _till now_.

There was a pause… too long of a pause. Sherlock pulled John closer, trying to see through the blood tinted, blurry water. His eyes… closed? No. No, not closed, please not closed. He gave John a light shake, shouting through his mask although he knew John couldn't hear him.

"John! John, wake up!" Another shake. "Wake up you stubborn idiot!"

John stirred, a hand coming up to take Sherlock's wrist again. _Hrts_, he wrote, his hand tensed and shaking. Pain. Eyes closed from pain, not death. Sherlock felt his own body shaking with relief as John wrote again on his palm. _Go_- Sherlock pulled away from John's grip, taking the soldier's hand and drawing a firm "_No_" on the water-wrinkled palm. He could almost hear John's tut of annoyance in the way he snatched the detective's wrist again. _Go shoot L 4 me. Hes tkng 2 lng. _A laugh pushed past the fear choking Sherlock's throat and he scribbled a quick _"Gladly"_ before pushing off for the surface again.

The air felt cold when Sherlock pulled the mask from his face and cast about for Lestrade. The D.I. stood by the poolside as several officers looped a sturdy cable under the beams protruding from the chunk of ceiling that had pinned John. Catching sight of Sherlock, Lestrade hurried over, his helping hand ignored as Sherlock dragged himself out of the clinging water.

"Sherlock! What's wrong? Is he alright?" Lestrade demanded, obviously taking Sherlock's appearance as a sign that something was amiss. Waving off the man's concern, Sherlock sat at the edge of the pool, scrubbing the water from his face before nodding at the busy officers.

"What are they doing?"

"We're going to try to lift it. Just enough for someone to get John out but it would help if we knew just how much of him is under that thing." Lestrade sounded angry, his harsh tone no doubt covering for his own fear and concern for John's wellbeing.

"It's uh… it's his leg." Sherlock shook his head, droplets of water leaping from the dark locks as he tried to dispel the sudden, horrible image of John writhing at the bottom of the pool. "It's been… He's pinned. A- A metal spike or something." There was a pause in which Lestrade's eyes widened and he struggled to find words. After a moment, the officer in him took over and he faced Sherlock with a determined look set upon his face.

"Right. We'll need someo- fine, _fine!_ We'll need _you_ below," he amended as Sherlock sent him a scathing look. "You'll…" Lestrade sighed and spoke as if the very thought of what he had to say hurt. "Hell…. You'll have to pull his leg off the spike, alright?" Sherlock nodded. "I'll have a man here to help you get him out then you're _both_ going straight to the hospital."

"But I'm fi-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade cut him off. "You're soaked to the bone and have just been through who knows what sort of explosion-"

"_I_ know…" Sherlock muttered darkly but Lestrade ignored him.

"And I'm not about to let you wander off and freeze to death. At least not till after I've heard the _whole_ story."

"Yes, yes, _fine_ then! Can we get _on_ with things now?" Even seated at the side of the pool, Sherlock felt too far away. If something was wrong, John would have no way to tell them without Sherlock right there beside him. Lestrade nodded, handing him the end of a white cord used to separate the pool for lap swimming.

"Give that a tug when you're both ready." Sherlock took the rope with a soft nod, strapping his mask over his face. As the D.I. turned back to his men, Sherlock slipped back into the cold water, only just realizing how much his arms ached when he swam. He was going to be horridly sore tomorrow. That single, normal thought settled his nerves somewhat and he pushed himself deeper, defying his body's natural ability to float.

Settling beside John and anchoring himself with one foot, Sherlock began to write. _L going to lift. You OK?_ John's answer seemed to take hours coming, his finger moving sluggishly across Sherlock's palm. _No, _a pause then shaking fingers added_, cold_.

_Hang on,_ Sherlock wrote back. _Jst gt me out_, came the slow reply and Sherlock took John's hand in his, giving the rope a tug before releasing it and following John's leg down to the metal spear with his free hand.

There was a deep rumbling sound and the wall of concrete and steel shifted upward slowly. Immediately, John's hand tightened around his, the doctor's whole body tensing as the metal moved. Instinctively squeezing back, Sherlock began to ease John's leg down along the spike's jagged edge. There was a muffled cry and John's hand tightened, making Sherlock wince at the strength of it. More blood was spreading out to mix with the water and Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. The concrete shifted again, Sherlock pushed down on John's leg. The metal slid out an inch and John screamed. More blood joined with the water. Just a little more… please, Lestrade, just a little further.

Another rumble and the concrete shifted upward. John's grip was beginning to loosen. Rumble, shift, blood. The metal slid out another inch. Rumble, shift, blood. John's hand was barely holding Sherlock's now, his touch nothing more than a whisper of contact in their cold, sightless world. Rumble, shift, blood. John went limp. One last rumble and John's leg was free.

Instantly, Sherlock whirled about, pulling John upward with one arm across his chest. They broke the surface with a crash of displaced water, Sherlock ripping his mask off with one hand, pulling John with the other. The soldier was heavy and limp in his arms, a trail of blood spreading out behind them as Sherlock swam.

In a whirl of hands, barked orders and cold air, Sherlock found himself and John lying on the broken tiles beside the pool. Emergency personnel were rushing to and fro and Sherlock was content to lie there for a moment, gasping and wondering when his mask and tank had been removed. A cry broke out from somewhere to his left and Sherlock's eyes snapped open as a shaky, pain-laden voice cried his name in such a frantic tone he thought his heart might break. Scrambling to his knees, Sherlock pushed his way through the medics trying to staunch the flow of blood, ignoring Lestrade's protests as he shrugged off the D.I.'s restraining hand.

John was lying on a stretcher, twisting and struggling frantically against the restraining hands of several EMTs one of whom was actually lying across John's chest in a desperate attempt at keeping the soldier still. John's eyes were shut tightly, his hands clenched into fists as a young man pressed down hard on his leg. Another spasm wracked his body, tearing a ragged moan from his already hoarse throat. Suddenly furious, Sherlock dragged the nearest EMT off his friend, shouting savagely.

"Get the hell off of him! He's just nearly drowned and you're crushing him!" His fist connected with another EMT's face with a satisfying crunch. Another was kicked hard and stumbled back to land with a splash in the pool. John's body clear of attackers, Sherlock shrugged off Lestrade's hand with a snarl, kneeling beside his friend and taking one of the soldier's now limp hands in his own.

"John? John!"

"Sherlock, you need to let them help him." Lestrade's only answer was a sharp, irritated jerk of the detective's head. "Sherlock, he's bleeding out! You have to let them do their jobs!"

"_Do their jobs?"_ He practically bellowed the words, lifting John's head and shoulders into his lap and hovering a hand over the doctor's face, feeling for a breath. "They're supposed to _stop_ pain not cause it!" A slight warmth met his fingertips. Still breathing. Good man, John. Keep fighting.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade actually flinched as the detective's sharp grey eyes leapt to his face.

"One of them can stop the bleeding. _One_." Lestrade nodded, gesturing one of the remaining EMTs forward as Sherlock turned his head, addressing the ring of medical personnel around them.

"Just stupid… holding him down like some torture victim, of _course_ he'll fight it." The EMT, a doctor with stern, battle-worn features settled by John's leg, pulling a wad of gauze from a first aid kit and getting to work without a word. Good. The less these imbeciles spoke the better.

"S-Sherl'k…?" The detective's eyes snapped back to John's face instantly.

"Yes." Sherlock wished he could keep his own voice steady but the chill was seeping through his soaked clothing and choking his voice. When John spoke again, his voice was shaking and slurred though whether from pain, shock or cold Sherlock wasn't sure.

"Where… Wh's going on? I ca- can't see t-too well… m-my eyes h-hurt…." John's eyes flickered open, revealing bloodshot, pain-glazed blue.

"We're out, John, and the ambulance is here. You're going to be fine." John nodded softly, eyes closing tightly. Come to think of it, his own eyes stung painfully as well but he shoved the problem aside for now, hoping blinking would be enough to dispel the worst of the stinging chlorine. A muttered curse from the doctor beside him had Sherlock turning quickly. The man glanced over at him before returning his glower to John's leg.

"Damned trainee nearly broke the bone puttin' pressure on it like that." The man's voice was gruff and sounded oddly American. Southern Sherlock thought. Retired military too, judging by the firm precision in his movements. The man gave the wound another critical look before replacing the gauze over the jagged hole and muttering moodily to himself. "Where are we, the dark ages?" Sherlock smiled slightly at that, turning back to John who suddenly seemed heavier, his shoulders limp and sagging in Sherlock's arms.

"John?" He placed a hand on the too still chest, his own breath catching in his throat as he felt the weak, shuddering gasps beginning to fade. His voice cracked as he called John again, shaking him in a desperate attempt to rouse the fading soldier. The stern EMT moved to John's other side and Sherlock barely noticed more medics approaching, one taking over applying pressure and the others clearing a pathway to the ambulance.

"What's wrong?" The stern doctor demanded. Sherlock didn't answer. John's chest wasn't moving. John wasn't breathing. Sherlock wasn't breathing. The doctor muttered another acidic curse, shouting horrible things like "He's lost too much blood" and "We're losing him" that shook the great detective to his very core. Sherlock didn't even realize Lestrade was pulling him gently out of the way, making room for more EMTs and their equipment.

"John…" Not breathing.

"John?" Eyes closed, body still.

"John!" Sherlock scrambled to his feet, shedding the coat Lestrade had draped over his shoulders and lunging for the crowd of EMTs surrounding his friend, his only friend. Officers were holding his arms tightly, preventing him from seeing John. Shouts tangled in the air around him. Sherlock knew some were his own, calling for John, desperate for an answer, any answer. Sherlock pulled with all his might, gaining a few steps only to be pulled back again when his arms screamed for rest. The EMTs were leaving, rushing John to the ambulance and still the hands all around him wouldn't let Sherlock follow.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd fallen or if someone had pulled him down but he found himself once again seated on the wet tiles. A bright orange shock blanket fell across his shoulders and the hands on his arms and shoulders faded away as Lestrade knelt beside him. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the EMTs retreating forms, the terror in his chest morphing slowly into a dragging weight.

"It's all right, Sherlock. They're just taking him to the hospital." Sherlock heard Lestrade's words but they did little to reassure him. Lestrade hadn't seen John, the paramedics had swarmed him before the DI could see what had happened. Sherlock pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, drawing his knees up to his chest and taking in great shuddering gasps. He couldn't seem to calm his breathing. The weight in his chest was pulling him down, causing a strange lump to form in his throat. Was he sick? No… he would've noticed other symptoms as well. Shock? Could shock do this? Cause this horrible heart-wrenching feeling? Something pricked at his eyes and Sherlock blinked again, more water dripping down his cheeks.

"It's not all right." Sherlock spoke, surprised by the croaky tone his voice had taken. "He's…." the lump in his throat grew and it became difficult to speak. It was like a pool inside him, steadily growing, pushing at its boundaries until they finally gave way and the water overflowed. His vision was getting blurry. Sherlock blinked the water from his eyes and tried to remember what he'd been saying but all he could think of was John. John strapped to the bomb… John in the water, twisting and bleeding… John screaming… blood, blood in the water… too much blood. Lestrade's gentle rumble slipped through the images whirling in Sherlock's mind.

"Sherlock? What's not all right? You got him out. He's alive. Everything's fine."

"No…." John being held down… struggling. "It's n-not fine." John's slow, rasping breaths. "H-He's not f-fine." Silence… stillness… death.

"Sherlock-"

"He's dead." Sherlock knew he was breathing too quickly but didn't care. He was cold and the world felt wrong.

"No, Sherlock. The doctors-"

"He's dead, Lestrade!" Sherlock curled in on himself, his head felt stuffy, his eyes stung and watered but none of that compared to the ache in his chest. Gone. John was gone. John shouldn't have been here in the first place. It was his fault… John was gone and it was his fault. He'd…

"I've killed him." Sherlock's voice broke on the words and the pool overflowed. Tears streamed down his cheeks silently and he buried his face in the blanket, trying to disguise his sobs as deep, calming breaths. Vaguely, Sherlock noted a weight, Lestrade's hand, settling on his shoulder and he looked up, startled. The DI looked back at him, not with the pity and sympathy Sherlock had expected but with a grim, almost angry look.

"John is a soldier, Sherlock. He's been through hell and back once already. There's no way some damned psychopath kills him by accident." There was a pause, then….

"S-Sociopath." Sherlock corrected him, blinking and rubbing his face on the rough blanket.

"What?"

"I… M'a sociopath not a ps-psychopath."

"I wasn't talking about you."

Sherlock looked up and met the DI's unyielding glare. He nodded softly, shivering and pulling the blanket impossibly tighter. Probably just the effect of wet clothes and cold air but this chill seemed deeper than before. Was he really in shock? His thoughts were cut off abruptly as a voice broke out of the blur around him.

"Mister Holmes, right?" Sherlock looked up to find the doctor who'd been helping John looking down at him with a searching gaze. The man continued without waiting for a response. "Your friend is alive. We've gotten him breathin' again but he's not out of the woods yet. Now, I need t'get him to a hospital as soon as possible an' I can't do that with you punchin' out my nurses." The man's southern drawl seemed violently out of place but Sherlock was busy focusing his entire attention on the man's words. The Southern doctor looked Sherlock in the eye critically as the detective simply stared past him mutely. John was alive… alive...

"Hey." The man snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's face, drawing the detective's gaze back to him. "I'm going to let you ride with him but only if you agree to let me look you over without complaint. And y'have t'let us do our job without worryin' about you shovin' us around, a'right?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly and scrambled to his feet, nearly falling flat on his face in the process. With Lestrade's help, he managed to navigate the debris strewn poolside and reach the ambulance without doing himself any further damage.

He paused outside the vehicle doors. A few nurses sat inside, arranging wires and supplies for the ride but Sherlock's eyes never left the pale figure on the gurney, his eyes glued to the gentle rise and fall of his friend's chest. Taking a seat in a corner, Sherlock stayed still and silent as the doctor looked him over and a nurse traded his soaked blanket for a dry one.

The ambulance rumbled to life and began its trek along the winding streets but Sherlock barely noticed. His mind was an even more convoluted jumble of memories, feelings, and input. Every time he closed his eyes his mind was plagued by flashes of Moriarty, the bomb, blood stained water, John's screams echoing in his ears again and again. Shifting slightly, he reached out past the Southern doctor and placed a hand on John's shoulder. The steady thump of the soldier's heart beat away at his whirling thoughts until he was left only with a bone-weary stillness. The only thing he heard were those beats, so mundane and taken for granted day to day but so, so vitally important.

His own heartbeat calming, Sherlock turned back to the memories scanning over the flashing images and committing them to memory so that when (not if) he again found James Moriarty, he could pull the trigger without hesitation. He was sure the criminal mastermind had worked the possibility of an explosion into his plan; he'd be a fool not to. Moriarty was alive and Sherlock would find him. The man had nearly killed John, nearly torn the heart out of Sherlock. The detective was sure he hadn't ever felt as much as he had tonight, and it had _hurt_. He wasn't going to give Moriarty the chance to try again. Moriarty would be stopped. No more games, no more pain, no more lives lost. All admiration for Moriarty's cunning schemes had vanished, replaced by revulsion.

_I will burn the heart out of you_… Moriarty hissed in his mind.

_Not if I burn you first… _

**Note: A couple things that might seem off but I assure you are not:**

**The pool depth: I haven't checked to see if pool depths are visible in the actual episode (although I was amused to see that Moriarty stands next to the "deep end" sign which puts him "Just off the deep end" XD), however, I did a bit of research and found that pools with the high dive can get to be 18 feet deep. I hereby dub my pool to be a high dive pool. **

**The scuba masks: Yes, many masks have mouth pieces that would make speech/shouting impossible or at the very least awkward. But there are masks out there that fit over the nose and mouth and filter in oxygen WITHOUT a mouthpiece. Those are the ones used here. **

**John's lung capacity: It's amazing, I know, but it was better to go with suspension of disbelief than to have Sherlock go up to get air every ten seconds… too repetitive and there are only so many adjectives to use. Especially when you're trying to avoid calling it a "kiss". O_o**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**Scholar **


End file.
